


Combat Efficiency.

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for ladydragon76's auction win! I kept trying to write dirty talk but, well, it's lolarious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combat Efficiency.

“Blurr.” Springer barked, standing, arms folded, in the doorway of his office. He was still dinged up from battle, charred energon spattered on the yellow-orange of his chassis.

“Springer,” Blurr said, almost companionably, slowing his stride as he approached, just enough to set his hips swaying. He was always a big believer in ‘if you’ve got it, flaunt it.’ And he had it.

And Springer wanted it.

Springer tilted his helm. “Office.”

“Later,” Blurr said, breezily. “Let me get cleaned up first.”

A silver bar of Springer’s forearm across his path. Blurr drew himself up to a stop, letting his optics travel up the powerful arm housing, to the face, one supraorbital ridge quirked in a silent question.

“Maybe,” Springer said, his voice husky, “I like you a little dirty.”

“I see,” Blurr said, archly.

A flash of a grin. “You will.”

Blurr couldn’t hide the answering grin, sparked from Springer’s.  His steps were lighter than the triple-changer’s as he crossed the threshold, unwilling to hide the smirk that grew on his face, like an echo of the door closing behind him, as he linked his hands behind his back in parade rest. Might as well play along, right?

Springer chuckled, feigning an ease Blurr could feel betrayed by the hot tingle of the larger mech’s EM field against his.  Springer circled him, slowly, tilting his helm from one side to the other, letting himself study Blurr’s frame. Blurr could feel his optics traveling over his blue armor, like little hot ghostly fingers, exploring the vents in his thighs, the sweep of his hip frame.

Springer came to a stop somewhere behind him, out of his line of sight, and Blurr stood, head cocked to one side, reaching with his senses backwards, trying to find the larger mech.  Or tease him, perhaps. They were both the same as far as he was concerned.

The moment stretched, and proved too much for Blurr’s admittedly short patience. “You wanted to see me.”

“I am seeing you.” Springer’s voice, behind him, amused. “Not as much as I’d like to, though.”

“Oh?”

“You know what I want to see.” 

Blurr could hear the rev from Springer’s engine, a deep baritone rumble that seemed to tickle his footplates where they contacted the floor. “I do,” he said, pleasantly, making no move beyond shaping the words, feeling Springer’s pique at his lack of compliance.

“Only making it harder for yourself,” Springer said.

Blurr gave a snort of laughter. “’Harder’.”

He could feel Springer fight the laugh behind him. “Keep it up, Blurr.”  And then a muffled laugh. 

“Keeping it up’s never been a problem. For me at any rate.”  He’d give anything to see Springer’s face right now, but it was better, he knew, this way, tense and unknowing, waiting.

And Springer didn’t keep him waiting long—he swooped in, with the speed that had made him famous, one hand bracing across Blurr’s chassis, the other scraping over the interface hatch. “Let’s test that.”

Blurr wriggled back against the broad chestplate. “You a scientist now?”

Springer fanned his fingers over Blurr’s pelvic armor. “Just a good soldier who wants to make sure his equipment works to spec.”  A pressure on his shoulder, Springer peering over his chassis, so that his fingers could find the hatch’s catch.

Blurr’s spike leapt out, silver and two shades of blue, slick with lubricant. “Well,” Blurr drawled. “Don’t let me stand in the way. I’m all about military efficiency.”

A bump on his helm from Springer’s. “’Course you are.”  The hand slid over the exposed metal, trailing a thumb along the underside of the spike, while his fingers skittered around the valve’s rim. “I like efficiency, too.”

A sudden move, the bar of an arm over his chassis hiking him up, and Blurr felt the head of a spike press against the rim of his valve. He could feel the subtle, fine vibration of Springer’s arousal through the mesh of his valve.  He was balanced on the front of his toe plates, his weight hanging on Springer’s arm, his valve calipers twitching in anticipation. “Waiting for a green light from Ultra Magnus?”

“Heh.” Springer’s mass moved behind him, and the spike sank itself into his valve, filling the mesh lining to the edges, until Blurr’s feet barely touched the floor, his frame’s weight resting between Springer’s hips and arm.  “Maybe I just know how much you hate waiting.”

Blurr was quiet for a klik, his valve’s calipers spiraling down on the spike’s girth, rippling along it, garnering him a gratifying shiver from the body behind him. His own hands reached, clutching around Springer’s arm. “Problem is, Springer, you don’t have a lot of maneuvering room.”

“Never,” Springer said, reasonably, “tell a military commander he can’t maneuver.”  His free hand left Blurr’s body, to fiddle in a storage compartment on his thigh, one green blade of his knee sliding against the inside of Blurr’s thigh.

Blurr gasped, arching up into Springer’s chest, feeling an icy contact on the tip of his spike. He looked down, to see the tip of one Springer’s silver finger circling the head of his spike.

“Hypercoolant gel,” Springer said, mildly. “Picked it up last stopover at Kimia.”

“I don’t think this is the intended use,” Blurr gasped, wriggling, the cold almost too intense on his sensornet. 

“Hey, good soldiers improvise.”  Springer chuckled, before wrapping his hand—all his fingers slick with the gel—around the shaft of Blurr’s spike. “Besides it’s my intended use.”

Blurr tried some retort but it guttered in his vocalizer.  

Against his backframe, Springer’s chassis vibrated with amusement. “Looks like I finally found a way to shut you up.”  His hand began moving, sliding the cold gel down and up his spike.  Blurr writhed, helplessly pinioned on Springer’s spike, the movement sliding his valve’s mesh over the spike, the calipers quivering and clutching. Springer purred against him, the vibration adding to the intense cold pressure and movement on his spike and the subtle shifts of Springer’s mass behind him, the spike throbbing in his valve, a hot blade of contrast with the cold, slick pressure on his spike.

“Try…harder…!” Blurr gasped, his hands clawing at Springer’s wrist.

“I don’t  ‘try’ anything,” Springer said, before bending his head, wedging it between Blurr’s shoulder and helm, glossa flicking hard against one of the blue racer’s exposed throat cables. His hand kept working at the spike, long, maddeningly slow pulling strokes that had Blurr squirming his hips back and forth.

There were times when even Blurr surrendered control, and this kind of attention was definitely one of them. Springer was just inexorable in his desire, intense and demanding. He enjoyed pushing Blurr to this point almost as much as Blurr enjoyed being like this—the center of attention, his own desire and response the focus of his partner.

His body bucked against Springer’s, the biting cold swirling through his sensornet, adding an extra layer of stimulation to the rising charge until he could hold himself back no longer, and his spike jumped in the cold grip into overload. Transfluid rushed, scalding hot, as though burning its way down the cold channel of his spike, as he shuddered, mouth parted in a soundless shape.

Springer held him, the triple-changer’s powerful actuators easily holding Blurr’s stripped-down racer’s weight as the overload’s charge swept through him in great waves, as Springer stopped the movement of his hand, with one last sweep of his thumb over the spike’s head, his own spike throbbing at the way Blurr’s body twitched. The larger mech gave a contented purr, bending his knees, the green blades of his greaves sliding over Blurr’s thighs to lower the racer to the ground.

“Hm,” Springer said, his joke rough with the lust in his voice, “Looks like it works well enough.”

Blurr turned his shoulders, reaching one hand back to hook Springer’s head to pull in for a challenging, nipping kiss, swiping some of the gel off his spike and holding it with a menacing wink, “I don’t know,” he said, “I think more testing is required.”


End file.
